She gasped into his mouth and hiked up one leg. He dropped his hand from the door and grasped the crook of her knee, pulling the leg up even higher, before sliding his hand down the silky expanse of that long, toned thigh. He grabbed hold of her firm ass, his fingers digging in as he pulled her closer. His mouth left hers and traversed down her jawline to her sensitive neck, dropping suctioning kisses en route to the scented little nook below her ear. An area he knew could make her knees weak if he touched and kissed it in just the right way.
She sighed when first his lips and then his tongue caressed her there, but she squealed when he took a gentle nip at the flesh and then nuzzled it with his nose—loving the scent of her arousal mingling with the warm vanilla and honeysuckle—and then with his beard.
“Oh.” Her breath left her in a single soft, exhaled moan, and her head flew back and thumped against the door. Greyson regretfully left the little secret cove of sensation and meandered down the column of her neck to the swell of her breasts, kissing the fuller mounds reverently. Not sure if it was okay to touch the way he wanted to touch, he erred on the side of caution and moved back up, leaving a necklace of kisses on her décolletage before finding her hungry mouth again.
The hand he had on her behind moved up to cup one of her breasts gently, exploring the new shape behind the thick padding of her bra. Her nipple was so hard he could feel it burning into his palm like coal, despite the layering between her skin and his.
“Is this okay?” he asked against her mouth, and she moaned her assent. Despite her clear enjoyment of his touch, he did not want to risk a repeat of what had happened to her earlier and instead moved down to the swell of her stomach. Her contours there were also new, but he loved the fuller mound of it. He knew that that was where their baby had rested and had a violent longing to go back and do what he should have done then. Feel Clara moving in Libby’s womb, talk to his unborn baby and reassure her mother.
He felt tearing regret at the loss, but his hand had a life of its own, not caring about his remorse or pain. Instead it crept under her skirt and found the lace of her panties.
She arched into his touch, and thus encouraged, his hand slipped down the front of the lace and found her sopping, swollen slickness an instant later. He gently grasped the full bud of her clitoris between the knuckles of his first and middle fingers and rolled it in a firm massaging motion.
She cried out, her arms clamping around his neck. Her grip was almost painful as she tried to drag him even closer.
“Oh my God!” She sounded shocked, almost horrified, and she buried her face in his neck as she pushed herself against his hand and shuddered against him. Her orgasm was fast and powerful and left her limp in his arms.
He was as shocked as Olivia. She had always been extremely sensitive and receptive to his touch, but this was way faster than usual. She had gone quiet in his arms, still shuddering intermittently, her breath coming in harsh sobs, but she was no longer urgently moving against him or kissing him.
“That was such a mistake,” she whispered into his ear, and he screwed his eyes shut.
“We still have this, Olivia. It was good between us before. It can be good again.”
“I admit we have some serious chemistry, but . . . ,” she began to say, her face still in his neck, before she paused and then sighed. “Uh . . . do you mind moving your hand?”
The request was so polite that for a second, he had no idea what she meant. Until she wriggled against him. He flushed and withdrew his hand from her panties. He stepped away from her in the same motion.
“Whoa,” he cried in alarm when she wobbled, and he grabbed her arm to keep her steady. She found her footing immediately, and he loosened his grip and reluctantly let her go.
Her eyes dropped to the front of his jeans, which did little to conceal his erection.
“Sorry,” she said with a grimace. “That can’t be pleasant.”
“It’s not. But it won’t kill me.”
She didn’t say anything in response to that, merely smoothed her hair back from her face. “You should go. Thank you. For the door and the plumbing . . . but please just leave.”
“Olivia, we still have this spark between us. We can—”
“It’s just sex, Greyson. It’s always been just sex between us,” she interrupted fiercely.
“We made it work before.”
“You know that’s not true,” she said tiredly. “It didn’t work. It never could. Because without the sex, what else did we have? Just lies and distrust. Our marriage was doomed to fail, and our relationship—such as it was—should have remained sexual until it burned itself out and we both went our separate ways.”
What the hell is wrong with me? Libby despaired. Why was it so hard to resist him?
“You know that you’re sending me some very confusing signals, right?” he asked gently.
“I know that,” she admitted, her voice exasperated and filled with regret. “You don’t think I know that? I’m confused too. I know I don’t want you in my life anymore, but for some crazy reason I still want you in my bed. I’m only human, and we’ve always been really great together, and I can’t stop thinking of that.”
And it didn’t help that he was suddenly so much sweeter, more approachable, and more appealing than before. Her head and heart couldn’t agree on how she felt about him. Her head told her she hated him and should keep him at a distance. Her heart said he was the father of her child and he was trying to make amends . . . and then her horny body joined the conversation and said, Hey, guys, let’s sleep with him. That’ll be fun and awesome and cool, right?
Ridiculous.
“You still want me in your bed?” he asked, his face lighting up. Jeez, how like a man to focus on that detail.
“Yes, but it’s not going to happen.”
His face took on a frustratingly neutral expression before he nodded. “You’re right, I should leave. But . . .” She tilted her head, waiting for him to continue. “Can I come tomorrow? To replace the door handle?”
“You can come in the morning or evening, after Clara and I have left. The door will obviously be unlocked . . .”
He nodded, and before she knew what he was going to do, he walked to the playpen to stare down at the sleeping baby.
“I’ll see you soon, baby girl,” he said quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watched her. He turned his head unexpectedly and snared Libby’s eyes with his intent gaze.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice holding a gruff note of sincerity. “For today. It meant everything.”
He strode to the front door, brushing past Libby on his way out, and departed without another word. Leaving Libby with the overwhelming and confusing compulsion to call him back. Fortunately, she curbed the impulse, closing and engaging the newly installed dead bolt before she was once again tempted to throw caution and common sense to the wind.
Harris wasn’t at the house when Greyson got back. Which was odd, since his car was parked out front. Stranger still was the fact that Martine’s Lexus was missing, leading Greyson to conclude that either Harris had gone walking in this terrible weather, or—more likely—he and Martine were off somewhere together.
Intriguing.
Martine had very good reason to never want to speak or spend time with Harris. Greyson didn’t think either of the other two was aware of exactly how much he knew about what had happened between them ten years ago. In fact, Greyson had put out several fires in the immediate aftermath of their encounter. Another fact he knew neither Harris nor Tina was privy to. He doubted they would have appreciated his intervention.
He was on everybody’s shit list these days, and even though he had had the best of intentions, they probably wouldn’t have anything positive to say about his involvement in the matter.
He clenched his fists as he blindly stared at the shabby interior of the house. His eyes fell to the table and the remnants of a shared meal. Two place settings, two empty wineglasses. His eyebrows rose
.
Even more interesting.
Greyson sighed heavily, and his shoulders sagged. He had too much else on his mind to spend time speculating about what could possibly be happening between Harris and Martine. Whatever was going on wouldn’t end well—of that he was sure. In fact, Greyson wasn’t sure there were any happy endings in sight for any of them.
He briefly considered cleaning up after the other two, but his hand was throbbing, and he was developing a headache, and he just . . .
Fuck it.
He felt defeated.
He should be with them. He shouldn’t be here in this shitty house, wearing these unfamiliar clothes, feeling sweaty, grubby . . .
Helpless, hopeless, and so fucking alone.
He sank down onto the sofa and covered his face with his shaking hands. He allowed himself a moment . . . two . . . three . . .
Stop this! the stern inner voice of his conscience commanded. It was the same voice that had finally penetrated his alcoholic haze three months ago, the voice that had clamored, This is wrong! in his head when he had accused Harris of the most reprehensible offenses . . . the voice that had constantly urged him to convince Olivia to marry him. Every time he’d been with her, every time they had made love, it had been there: Marry this woman. You have to marry her.
It had gone completely silent when she had announced her pregnancy. And then had flared back with a vengeance after Clara’s birth. Demanding he look at her, pick her up, hold her close.
Turned out his conscience was a damned sight savvier than Greyson. He should probably listen to it more.
To take his mind off his inner turmoil, he dug his phone out of his jeans pocket and checked his messages quickly. One from his mother, telling him they were going to renovate the kitchen. He shook his head. His mother always kept them informed about random crap like that. It was her way of staying in touch with her sons. He had no doubt Harris had received a similar—if not identical—text.
His father had sent a dad joke. These had become more frequent since the old man’s retirement two years ago. No real content, just dumb memes and terrible jokes. His parents were as dry—and boring—as toast, and Greyson knew he took after them. But he did not see anything wrong with keeping one’s emotions under lock and key. It was neat and efficient. Harris was the overly emotional one in the family, and it had been tiring to keep up with his many moods during their childhood and early adolescence. And then that thing with Martine. Shit, Greyson would never have gotten himself into a similar situation.
But Olivia . . . she had always incited more feelings than he knew what to do with. First as a kid, trailing after them, always wanting to play whatever games they were playing. Harris had happily roughhoused with her, while Greyson had observed grimly from the sidelines. Always with a nervous knot in his stomach as he watched his careless brother carry the petite little girl around on his shoulders or back. Fearing that Harris would drop her, hurt her . . . break one of her fragile bones. But for all his rough-and-tumble ways, Harris had never dropped her. That fact had not prevented Greyson from placing himself within catching distance, just in case.
And then in his teens, when he’d been more of a loner and she had trailed after him like a lovesick puppy, it had been embarrassing and annoying, but he had allowed it to carry on for the longest time. Not wanting to say anything because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. It had gone on for two years before he had told her to back off. But he had been overly harsh, and he could still recall the wounded look in her large eyes and the clumsy way she had bolted away on those long, coltish legs. At fourteen she hadn’t yet come into the willowy grace she now possessed. No, that had happened somewhere between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Greyson had missed the transformation, which was why it had been so damned jarring seeing her again when she’d been sixteen. She had been the same lovely Olivia Lawson, but with an appealing added sensuality, grace, and beauty.
He recalled walking into the house, greeting his parents, looking up, and spotting her standing with her parents. And he had literally stopped breathing. She had been smiling, the familiar wide, generous smile that he knew so well, but it had never before made him want to kiss her. He had glowered at her, not understanding his reaction—or maybe understanding it too damned well—and her smile had dimmed, replaced with uncertainty and hurt.
That was one of the few occasions he had actually appreciated Harris’s spontaneous exuberance. His brother, after planting an enthusiastic kiss on their protesting mother and hugging their father, had surged toward Olivia and lifted her up in a hug, swinging her around in the process. Her previous uncertainty had disappeared in the face of all that unrestrained affection, and she had giggled happily.
But that day was also one of the first—of many—times he had felt pure, unadulterated envy at how easy it was for Harris to hug Olivia and touch her and kiss her. After Harris had finally put her down, Greyson had offered her a tight smile and greeted her parents politely. Immediately following that, he had fabricated a flimsy excuse and left the house. Afterward he had avoided her for nearly ten years, until he’d seen her again at that party. A party that he had known she would be attending.
He shook himself out of his memories, refocusing his attention on his phone. None of the other messages were pressing, and he opened up his favorite app, an adult coloring program, which held his attention for a while. He found the process of adding color to otherwise lifeless pictures soothing and could lose himself for hours before he finished one to his liking. No one knew about his escapist little hobby. It was a great stress reliever.
Chapter Ten
Greyson was up later than usual the following morning. After confirming that he had indeed been out with Martine, Harris had clammed up last night after Greyson—looking for any excuse to make conversation with his brother—had pushed a little too hard for details. Harris’s responses had been curt and impatient. And Greyson had retreated to his room, acknowledging that attempting conversation with Harris on the matter was a futile endeavor. But sleep had been hard to come by. Greyson had tossed and turned for most of the night.
Now he had overslept and was up late, and when he stumbled blearily into the living room, it was to find Harris sitting at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him. There were files and sheaves of paper spread out on the table.
“What’s going on?” Greyson asked, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle a yawn. Harris “caught” his yawn and executed a jaw-popping one of his own. He dropped the Montblanc pen, which Greyson had given him for his birthday five years ago, on the table next to his laptop and leaned back in the rickety kitchen chair to stretch before doing a few shoulder and neck rolls.
“I have to call the office in Perth later. We still have a problem there,” Harris said on another yawn. He was referring to the embezzlement scam in Australia that had cost the company $10 million earlier in the year. Greyson had gone to Perth just before Libby’s due date, conveniently placing himself out of the country for Clara’s birth.
He had been such a coward.
“What do you mean, we still have a problem?” Greyson asked, trying to force the memory of missing Clara’s birth to the back of his mind.
“Not sure, and I won’t know until I’ve spoken with Norm Fisher in accounts. We have a Skype meeting in about forty minutes. I’m going over the financials he sent me last night. And some of the old reports from when you went in March.”
“Want me to sit in on the meeting?”
“That would probably be the easiest and best way to keep you in the loop.” Harris nodded. He glanced down at Greyson’s bandaged hand, and a frown flickered across his brows. “What happened to your hand?”
“I cut it. It’s not a big deal.”
“You cut it playing handyman, didn’t you?”
“I’ll shower and change,” Greyson said, choosing not to respond to that. He really wasn’t in the mood to hear an I told you so.
“Why? It’s just a Skype
call,” Harris asked.
Greyson shook his head in response to his brother’s question. Harris was wearing a fleece hoodie with a random number printed on the front, jeans, and no shoes. Granted, Fisher wouldn’t see anything but their heads and shoulders, but Greyson wasn’t about to let one of the company employees, especially a high-ranking one, see him unshaven and underdressed.
“I won’t be long,” he said, not bothering to answer. “You can brief me on the financials later.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Harris muttered, refocusing his gaze on his laptop screen. And Greyson hovered for a moment, wanting to respond with an equally pithy comeback. But he wasn’t great with one-liners and found himself standing there just long enough to make things awkward, before clearing his throat and turning toward the bathroom.
Greyson felt horribly overdressed when he walked into MJ’s with Harris three hours later. Their Skype meeting had run long and had frustratingly confirmed that they definitely still had a problem in Australia. They were hemorrhaging money. After a month or two without any suspicious activity, it looked like the person or persons unknown were back to their larcenous ways.
Dumb. It was only a matter of time before they were caught. They didn’t even recognize how much rope they’d been fed with which to hang themselves. Fisher had been expertly reeling them in and felt certain he would be able to identify them within the week.
After their meeting, Harris had nonchalantly suggested they head to MJ’s for brunch, and Greyson had immediately agreed. Harris had quite unequivocally stated that he would drive, and Greyson, eager to spend time with his brother, had agreed to that as well. Even though he absolutely loathed being driven by anyone. He didn’t trust any other driver to get him to his destination safely or on time. On the occasions when necessity called for him to use a driver, he found himself constantly on edge. And even though he had never said as much, Harris knew that about him and usually let Greyson drive.
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